


when you can't rise (i'll cry with you on hands and knees)

by 136108



Category: Stray Kids (Band)
Genre: Bang Chan is a Sweetheart, Chan is stressed and Jisung is sad about it, Han Jisung | Han is a Sweetheart, Inspired by that one 2 Kids Room episode, M/M, They're both crybabies, Trainee Era, jisung is a crybaby, you know the one
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-22
Updated: 2019-07-22
Packaged: 2020-07-07 17:10:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,146
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19855915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/136108/pseuds/136108
Summary: Jisung waslivid.It was Chan’s birthday, and Chan had promised,promised,to make time for him, since it was his first birthday since Jisung had become a trainee. He’d wrapped a strong arm around Jisung’s shoulders, had flashed his dimples, and had promised to be free that night for them to have dinner and hang out.But 8PM came and went, and Chan never came.And so here he was. He had just walked all the way from the dorms to the company building, in the dark, clutching a cold bag of takeaway chicken against his chest. He was standing right outside the door to Chan’s studio, ready to cuss him out for working so late and to drag him home, against his will if he had to.(Inspired by the 2 Kids Room episode with Chan and Jisung)





	when you can't rise (i'll cry with you on hands and knees)

**Author's Note:**

> please watch the 2 kids room ep i can't believe that this oneshot isn't entirely fictional, like some of the dialogue is taken directly from the episode, chanhan outsold your faves

Jisung was _livid._

He had just walked all the way from the dorms to the company building, in the dark, clutching a cold bag of takeaway chicken against his chest. He was standing right outside the door to Chan’s studio, ready to cuss him out for working so late and to drag him home, against his will if he had to.

It was Chan’s birthday, and Chan had promised, _promised,_ to make time for him, since it was his first birthday since he and Jisung had become friends. He’d wrapped a strong arm around Jisung’s shoulders, had flashed his dimples, and had promised to be free that night for them to have dinner and hang out.

Jisung had even planned out an entire night; Chan was always on the go, always working, so he’d thought they could stay in together and chill. He had a bunch of DVDs that he was going to have Chan choose from, and he’d gotten a few of the other members—Changbin and Woojin—to come over for a bit. And, even though they were supposed to be dieting, he’d ordered yangnyeom chicken—Chan’s favorite food, like, _ever_ —as a surprise.

But 8PM, their agreed dinner time, came and went, and Chan never came.

The first hour had passed, but Jisung hadn’t been worried. It wasn’t uncommon for Chan to arrive home late, a sheepish smile on his face and a work-related excuse on his lips. He’d been convinced that, at any moment, Chan was going to slip in through the door and join them.

The second hour had passed, and Jisung had suggested they start a movie, just until Chan got there. The others had agreed, and they’d put on an action movie. Jisung had sat on the edge of the couch, staring over towards the door, barely taking in any of the plot.

The third hour had passed, and Changbin and Woojin had eaten their chicken. Jisung had crossed his arms, a small frown on his face that only dropped away when Woojin pulled him into his arms and began petting the top of his head. He’d melted into the touch, but every now and then his eyes would still flick towards the door.

After the fourth hour, the movie long finished, Changbin and Woojin had excused themselves to bed, pitying expressions on their faces as they’d left. Woojin had gently told him that he should probably get to bed, too. After they left, staring vacantly at the clock, Jisung realized that midnight had passed, and it wasn’t even Chan’s fucking birthday anymore. Chan wasn’t coming. He also realized that Changbin and Woojin had probably figured that out a while ago, but had been too nice to leave Jisung waiting alone.

But Jisung was tired of waiting up for Chan to come home from the studio; tired of going days without saying good night to him because he wouldn’t come home until the early hours of the morning. Every time he left the studio and Chan told him he was going to stay for a little bit longer, Jisung wanted to scream at him. He wanted to tell him that his self-sacrificial bullshit was going to run him into the ground someday, to grab his arm and drag him back to the dorms and force him to take care of himself for once in his life.

And so here he was, outside the studio. He was only separated from Chan by an unlocked door and a few feet, but Chan had never felt more unreachable than in that moment. Mustering up all of his courage, he knocked on the door to the studio once, twice, and waited.

“Who is it?” called Chan’s voice.

“It’s me, open up!”

“Gimme a sec,” Chan said. He sounded distracted, and Jisung rolled his eyes. So he’d been right, then. Chan was staying up, on his fucking birthday no less, working on a track.

Jisung often liked to say that when he was producing, Bang Chan went off on vacation somewhere and someone named Zombie Chan took his place. Part of Chan’s genius was his laser-like focus, his ability to home in on one idea and hammer away at it relentlessly until it was perfect. When he was pursuing an idea, a sound, he was capable of disregarding everything else until he was satisfied with it. He’d become so absorbed in it that Zombie Chan would be born: distant, barely responsive, nearly nonverbal. If Chan could, he’d make the entire world stop turning on its axis until he finished a thought, he was so terrified of it slipping away from him before he could get it down.

He knew that a large part of this stemmed from Chan’s sense of responsibility—not just for himself, but for all of the members. As their main producer and songwriter, not just the leader, there was more resting upon his shoulders than on any of the others'; he individually played one of the largest roles in their success or failure. That responsibility was what drove him to push himself as hard as he could, mentally _and_ physically. Chan had convinced himself that the only way to deal with his burden—the only way he could be good enough for them to succeed—was by becoming better, by working harder and faster and longer.

Somewhere along the way, he’d forgotten that everyone has limits, himself included. That he couldn’t protect anyone if he didn’t protect himself. That it was breaking their hearts to see him run himself into the ground in their name.

That it was breaking Jisung’s heart to see him tired, in pain, and even then smiling and refusing help.

But anger was easier to deal with than sorrow, so as footsteps shuffled towards the door, Jisung drew himself up in righteous fury, determined to give Chan a piece of his mind. If the fucker thought he could pull his usual self-sacrificial bullshit on his birthday and no one would notice, he was even more of an idiot than Jisung had thought.

Then the door opened, and there stood Chan.

Jisung opened his mouth to scold him for being an idiot, to yell at him for leaving him waiting, but he saw the bags under his eyes, and sympathy welled up from within him, washing away his irritation. He could just picture him, hunched over his keyboard, the light of the computer monitor washing out his face into a sickly blue color. Who knew how many hours had trickled by as he sat there; how many hours it had been since he’d eaten, or drank, or left the room at all.

He sighed, and bit back his angry words. “Hyung, eat this,” he said instead, shoving the takeaway bag into Chan’s chest just a bit too aggressively.

Chan’s hands instinctively shot up to catch it, and he gave Jisung a bewildered look.

“It’s your chicken,” he said, by way of explaining. “Well, our chicken. It’s cold now.”

Realization dawns on Chan’s face, followed by horror, and _oh_ Jisung would do anything to make sure Bang Chan never looked like that again—especially over something as stupid as Jisung and chicken.

“Jisung, I’m so sorry,” he apologized frantically, looking seconds from tearing at his hair. From the crumpled state of his clothing, the tangles in his curls, and the bloodshot veins in his eyes, he’d been camped out in the studio for a long time. Sleep deprivation didn’t suit Chan; it made him look sickly, and made him more paranoid, more unstable. More likely to panic.

“It’s fine—” Jisung began, trying to calm him down, but Chan cut him off, waving his hands.

“No, it’s not!” he insisted, and his eyes were so genuine in their guilt that it hurt Jisung’s heart. “I know how much you wanted to spend time with me on my birthday, oh god you were probably waiting for hours, it’s after midnight isn’t it? It’s not even technically my birthday anymore—”

“Hey, Bang Chan,” Jisung said, and he couldn’t help a fond smile from tugging at the corners of his lips. Chan was rambling, something that he only ever did when exhaustion drove him to panic. It made him want to wrap him up tight in a hug, protected from the outside world, and never let go. “Did you know that in Malaysia it’s still before midnight? So, there, and in plenty of other time zones, it’s still your birthday.”

 _You’re not too late,_ he meant.

Chan’s eyes softened. “Thanks, Jisung,” he said gently, reaching out a hand to ruffle Jisung’s hair, then sliding it down to clasp reassuringly around the back of his neck. It was a familiar and comforting gesture, and Jisung leaned instinctively into the warm brush of his fingers, letting out a small hum of contentment.

Chan’s touch brought back memories of late nights in the studio, just the two of them, on the nights where Jisung was able to summon the willpower to force himself awake long enough to keep Chan company as he worked. As the night dragged on, the boundaries between them would blur until there seemed to be no significant distinction between where Jisung ended and Chan began. Jisung would press himself in a little closer to Chan’s warmth, and in return Chan would pull him in tighter, as if they were trying to combine into one being. They’d get closer and drowsier until they woke up the next morning, no memory of falling asleep, their bodies intertwined.

If Chan’s hand lingered in his hair a little longer than it should have, neither of them mentioned it.

“Thank you for bringing me this,” Chan said, in the semi-patronizing tone Jisung liked to call his dad voice. “Why don’t you eat, and then get back to bed? I can call the manager to drive you home, you shouldn’t be walking around by yourself this late.”

Frustration bubbled up angrily in Jisung’s belly. Chan always did this when Jisung tried to bring him help. He was trying to distract Jisung, trying to take care of him while hoping that he wouldn’t notice he was refusing to take care of himself. Eat the chicken, Jisung, but don’t think too hard about the fact that I’m not eating. Go back to the dorms, Jisung, but don’t expect me to come back with you.

But if Chan thought he was going to be lulled into slinking home without accomplishing his goal, he didn’t know Jisung at all. “Hyung,” Jisung started, and his frustration was clear in his tone.

“Yeah?” Chan asked, seeming a little confused by the abrupt change in his mood.

The uncertainty and exhaustion in his eyes was enough to make all of the arguments Jisung had planned on making die away on the tip of his tongue. The anger that had been filling him, crackling with energy along his spine, drained away. In its place, all that was left was the pang of sadness, one that he felt all the way to his core. It was the true root of his anger, and his thinly-veiled exasperation—he was less mad about Chan breaking his promise than he was about how Chan, time and time again, seemed physically incapable of thinking of himself.

His shoulders slumped, and a lump rose up in his throat.

“Hyung,” he began again, hating the way his voice cracked, “why are you alone on your birthday?”

Chan’s eyes widened slightly, but before he could answer, Jisung burst into tears.

Jisung had always been notorious for being what his friends referred to as a “crybaby,” half affectionately and half teasingly. He couldn’t help it, couldn’t hide it, just like how he couldn’t hide when he was happy or annoyed. When he was really sad, or really happy, or really angry, he would cry. When someone else was feeling happy or angry or sad, too, he’d cry with them or for them. He’d never been one to hide his emotions, choosing instead to wear them on his sleeve defiantly. Even if a boy crying was looked down on, he adamantly refused to apologize for it—it was an instinctive expression of his feelings, and he shouldn’t have to be ashamed of it. His mama told him, whenever he got teased about it, that as a baby, he’d cried the most out of any kid she’d ever seen. She then would tell him that he just sometimes felt things more strongly than other people did, that he sometimes felt other people’s emotions more strongly than most did.

And right then, Jisung was crying for Bang Chan. For the boy who would rather suffer alone than worry his friends, who was willing to go through hell and back to try to help them succeed together. Who spent countless nights forcing his body beyond its limits, staring into a practice room mirror perfecting his dance or staring into a computer screen perfecting his tracks. Who thought he couldn’t afford to be anything less than perfect, or they would fail and it would be his fault. Who gave so much of himself, to all of them, but couldn’t even imagine admitting that he needed their help.

The bag of chicken was dropped to the floor, and Chan took a quick step forward to close the distance between them. He brought his hands up to cup at Jisung’s cheeks, and normally Jisung would have pushed his face into the touch like a cat, but he was crying so hard he could barely breathe.

“Sungie,” Chan said, frantically trying to wipe away his tears with his thumbs.

His voice was full of such tender, unconditional concern that Jisung only cried harder, the kind of big, heaving sobs that make your ribs ache and your lungs sting. Of course, Chan would be thinking about him. He was so _good_ at worrying about others, had this intrinsic need to make sure everyone was okay at all times. Why was it so hard for him to understand that they wanted him to let himself need them, too?

“Why are you crying—” Chan started, voice trembling, and then stopped abruptly. Jisung, shocked, watched as tears began to roll down his cheeks, and his shoulders began to shake. While Jisung’s crying was just as blatant and loud and unapologetic as the rest of him, Chan cried silently, his sadness nothing more than a secret that he could never speak aloud.

He’d never seen Bang Chan cry before, and it scared him.

Chan was well-versed in comforting a weepy Jisung; so, ignoring his own tears, he reached out to pull him into a tight hug. Instinctively, Jisung relaxed into the familiar press of an arm around his waist, the light brush of fingers carding through his hair—all of it was so undeniably, unmistakably _Chan_ , that it couldn’t be anything asides comforting. Chan’s presence radiated warmth and security; being blanketed by his touch made Jisung feel safe in a way that nothing else did.

Jisung was pretty sure his presence didn’t have the same calming effect as Chan’s, and he was at a loss when it came to how to comfort him. Chan had never allowed anyone—Jisung included—to see him when he was vulnerable. The closest Jisung had ever gotten was seeing the physical signs of the mental and emotional toll that his work habits had given him; any time he’d tried to pry, Chan would give him the same placating smile and tell him not to worry about it. Jisung hadn’t planned for this; half of him had never expected to get this far.

But he would be damned if he didn’t try his best, even if he had no idea what he was really doing. He was determined to show Chan that it was so much _better_ when he let others help him as much as he always helped them. So, even as he cried, he rested his chin on Chan’s shoulder and curled in around him like a koala, as if, simply by hugging him hard enough, he could squeeze the sadness out of Chan. And, carefully, he placed his hand on Chan’s back, and rubbed it up and down in what he hoped was a comforting gesture.

He had no idea how long they stood there, clinging to each other as if they were the last people in the world, but eventually they calmed down enough for his sobs to slow into pathetic little hiccups, and for the shuddering of Chan’s shoulders to cease.

“Hyungie’s got you,” Chan murmured into his ear, his voice thick.

It was the kind of comforting nonsense that he would always whisper to him when he was holding him close—things like _hyungie will take care of it_ and _hyungie will keep you safe_ and _hyungie will protect you._ It was the best way Chan could think of, aside from his touch, to comfort him. He’d always been determined to protect Jisung, and all of the other members. Part of why he bore so much upon his shoulders was to lessen the burden that rested upon the others'.

“Hyung,” he started, rubbing his thumb along Chan’s spine, “do you trust me?”

Chan hesitated, and he tried to pull back. Jisung clutched him even tighter, digging his chin into Chan’s shoulder, and he stopped trying to pull away. He wasn’t sure if he could handle direct eye contact with Chan right then; for that matter, he wasn’t sure if Chan would be comfortable enough to confide in him if they were face to face.

“Of course I trust you, Jisungie,” he said, puzzled. “What’s this all about?”

“Then why don’t you let me help you?”

Chan froze, and the words hung between them for what felt like an eternity. Jisung itched to break the silence, to fill the space he felt between them, but he knew that he needed to let Chan process his words, and figure out a response. So, even though it was killing him inside, he kept his mouth firmly shut, letting Chan set his own pace.

Eventually, Chan cleared his throat. “Help me with what? The tracks?”

Okay, so maybe it was a bad idea to let Chan set the pace, because he was refusing to budge at all. Jisung rolled his eyes.

“Hyung, you’re overworking yourself,” he said gently, as if he were speaking to a scared animal. “You’re always pushing yourself in the practice room, or here in the studio. You hardly ever come back to the dorms now, and I know you haven’t been sleeping when you do.”

Chan sighed. “I’m sorry if I’ve worried you, Sungie, but I’m honestly alright. Things are just a little hectic right now because of our debut.”

“You’re not alright!” Jisung shook his head, anger welling up from the pit of his stomach.

At this, Chan reeled back, placing his hands on his shoulders and trying to look him in the eye. He couldn’t believe he was _still_ trying to feed him this bullshit about him being alright.

“Jisung—”

“Stop it!” Jisung shouted, tears rolling down his cheeks again, this time from frustration. “Please, stop lying to me! I know you’re not alright, you’re not!”

Chan froze, his hands slipping from Jisung’s shoulders, and took a tiny step back. His face was unreadable—he was trying to shut him out, _again._ Jisung followed him, desperately, grabbing at his hoodie to try and keep him from running away.

“Please, Chan,” he begged, through his tears. “It’s okay, I promise. I know you’re tired, and stressed, and, and scared, and—I know you’re not happy, right now, and _please_ don’t suffer through this by yourself. You’re hurting right now, and trying to power on alone is just making it _worse_.”

Something flickered in Chan’s eyes, but he was still shaking his head, refusing to accept what Jisung was saying. It was time for a different tactic.

He stepped forward again, into Chan’s space, and this time he didn’t step away. His fingers reached forward, tangling with Chan’s, then holding on tightly.

“You take care of me all the time,” he said slowly, deliberately. “But why won’t you let me take care of you? It hurts me to see you like this, and it hurts me when you won’t let me help you.”

From the widening of Chan’s eyes, Jisung guessed that he had hit it right on the nail: Chan was so self-sacrificing that he cared more about Jisung’s pain than his own. Trying to urge him to get help for his own good wasn’t enough to override his sense of crippling responsibility for Jisung and the other members. But an argument that highlighted the damage to others that his actions caused— _that_ got his attention.

Bang Chan was willing to put himself through any type of hell that he thought was necessary, but he drew the line at hurting the members. At hurting Jisung.

“Why do you hide this from me, hyung?” he pressed further, blinking through his tears. “I just want to be there for you, the way that you’re always there for me. Please, I’m scared that you’re going to get even more hurt.”

“Jisung, I—” Chan looks overwhelmed, his eyes flickering around the room to avoid meeting Jisung’s gaze. “I don’t—”

It was time for the final push.

“You’ve done so well, hyung,” Jisung whispered, and wrapped his arms around Chan’s neck to pull him into a one-sided hug. “But I’m here, so you can rest now.”

Chan didn’t move, or speak. One second stretched into ten, and Jisung squeezed his eyes tightly shut. He didn’t dare move, or speak, or even breathe, terrified of anything that might break the delicate bridge he’d been trying so desperately to build between them. Chan had been impossibly far away—had been unreachable—for so long, but just then he was close, close enough to maybe touch, and he was terrified that he’d wasted his chance. And so he stood there, praying that Chan couldn’t feel the anxious pounding of his heart, praying that Chan couldn’t tell how scared he was that this wouldn’t work. He hoped desperately that this _would_ work, because if it didn’t, he didn’t know what else to do. He’d pulled out every last stop he could think of—he’d promised himself he’d do his best, and this had been it.

Then, like a wall crumbling, Chan broke.

He collapsed rather than melted into Jisung’s arms, the movement uncoordinated and messy. Still, he clung to him so tightly Jisung could barely breathe, his fingers digging into his shoulder blades and his head burying into his neck. He hugged like he was drowning and Jisung was the only hope of air; like he was terrified that Jisung might evaporate before his eyes if he let go.

Chan hugged him as if the world was ending around them.

Jisung was so relieved that tears came to his eyes, and he sniffled quietly, hoping Chan wouldn't notice. Chan held him so tightly that he thought, distantly, that he might have faint bruises the next day, in the shapes of his hands. But he welcomed the pressure of Chan’s touch, and matched it with his own, doing his best to mimic the soothing gestures that Chan always used on him. With one hand, he reciprocated Chan’s embrace; with the other, he grasped the nape of Chan’s neck, gently rubbing his thumb along the skin there. Even as Chan shuddered with a renewed bout of tears, and the shoulder of Jisung’s sweater became wet and slimy, Jisung held him, trying as hard as he could to project the same feelings of warmth and safety and _calm_ that Chan always did for him. He was probably doing a shit job of it—Chan didn't usually cry when he was comforting Jisung—but he was doing his best.

“I’m—” tried Chan, before stopping. He took a wet, shaky breath, and tried again. “I’m sorry, I’m just—” He once more seemed to lose his words, falling into silence again.

Jisung only hummed, holding him a little tighter. “You’re just what, Chan?” he asked softly, when it became clear that Chan wasn’t going to continue unprompted.

“I’m just so _scared_ ,” breathed Chan, so quietly he almost didn’t hear it.

“What are you scared of?” Jisung asked, keeping his voice quiet and even, even though his heart was doing backflips somewhere in his throat.

Chan shuddered, his fingernails digging into Jisung’s skin through his sweater.

“I’m scared that we won’t make it,” he sobbed into Jisung’s shoulder. “We’re so close, but what if we’re not good enough to debut? What happens then? What happens if they decide they don’t like our choreography, or our tracks? What if they don’t like one of us— _god_ , what happens if we can’t all debut together? I’m so scared that we’re not good enough.”

Jisung rubbed his back as comfortingly as he could. “Chan,” he said delicately. “Are you afraid that you’re not good enough?”

 _“Yes,”_ Chan bawled, and Jisung decided that he’d done enough talking for the night. He'd already opened himself up to Jisung more than he'd ever opened up to him before. It was important to take this in steps; this was already an overwhelming victory in light of the failure that Jisung had half expected.

He pulled back from the hug, cupping Chan’s face with his hands so that their eyes locked. The sight of Chan’s tear streaked face, eyes red and swollen from crying, sent a sharp spike of pain through his heart.

“Bang Chan,” he said, slowly, resting their foreheads together. “I promise that you are _enough._ You’re one of JYP’s favorite trainees, because you’re so talented, in so many different ways. Most trainees, if they shine at all, really shine in one area, like dancing, or rapping. But you, Bang Chan—you’re like this monster trainee. You’re so versatile as a singer, dancer, and rapper, and you’re absolutely incredible as a producer and songwriter—do you know how few trainees create their own music? Do you know how rare 3RACHA is, how rare you are?”

He could tell that Chan was a little uncomfortable, not used to all of the praise, not fully believing it, but he pressed on anyways. Chan just needed to hear it, and hopefully if Jisung told him often enough, and honestly enough, he’d eventually start to realize it was true.

“You’ve got a lot of natural talent, Chan,” he said. “But you’ve never once been complacent. You’ve worked so long, and so hard, and I promise you that it _shows_ , in everything you do. You have more drive and determination than any other person I’ve ever met.”

Then, taking a deep breath, he pushed on to his final point. This, if nothing else, would get through to Chan.

“And you’re not alone. It’s so rare for trainees to band together like this, and do you realize how powerful that makes us? When we combine all of our talent, and all of our drive, and all of our work? It’s magic, Chan, when the nine of us are together. The things we do individually pale in comparison to what we’re able to accomplish when we’re together. So, please, it’s not your responsibility alone to make sure we debut. All nine of us are working hard to get us there, and I know that we’ll make it.”

“But how?” Chan asked brokenly, his eyes searching Jisung’s. “How do you keep your faith that we will? I’ve been a trainee for so long, Jisung, and people fade away all the time.”

“I just know,” Jisung said simply, and it was the truth. It was something that he could feel with absolute certainty in his chest, something that kept him going during the long hours of practice and the long nights of producing. “All of us together, we’re something special, Chan. We’re different. We’re unstoppable.”

Chan was looking at him in wonder, eyes wide. Jisung wasn’t surprised that they each felt the way they did; Chan was always the kind of person who planned everything out, who would think and overthink and over-overthink until he felt like he had complete control over the situation. Jisung, on the other hand, took things moment by moment, and trusted his heart completely.

And his heart trusted that they would debut. As nine. He knew himself, and he knew the other members, and he believed whole-heartedly that they would be able to make it, through a combination of talent and sheer hard work. As a self-selected group, and as a self-produced group, they stood out—not just in JYP, but in the entire industry. They would succeed because together, they were _more_ than any other trainee out there.

He understood why Chan was scared; as the leader, he would shoulder the most responsibility if his fears came true. But that was alright; if Chan couldn’t quite shake the fear that they wouldn’t be able to make it, no matter how hard they tried, then Jisung’s faith would have to be enough for the both of them.

“So, even if you’re scared, hyung,” he whispered, giving him his brightest smile. “Just lean on me for a while. I promise you that we’re going to make it.”

Chan drew in a big, shaky breath.

“Alright,” he breathed, and Jisung’s heart lit up with joy. Without thinking, he leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss to Chan’s cheek.

Even when he pulled back and Chan was staring at him, a mixture of shock and awe in his eyes, he couldn’t bring himself to feel embarrassed. He was too happy that Chan was finally trusting him, was finally letting himself accept help, for anything to bring him down.

“Let’s go home, hyung,” he said softly, grinning. “Let’s go home, and rest.”

He took Chan’s hand and pulled him out of the studio, back towards their dorms.

And, for the first time, Chan let him.

* * *

Everybody, Jisung thought, needed a Bang Chan—someone who loved them unconditionally, and would stop time itself if they asked him to. Someone who would always be there to hold them when they cried, who would always listen to them when they needed to talk, and who would always do his best to protect them.

Everybody needed a Bang Chan in their lives. Even Bang Chan himself. But since he couldn’t do all that for himself, then Jisung would have to do it for him.

Jisung would have to be the Bang Chan for the real Bang Chan.

(Later, as they were going to bed, Jisung would sleepily whisper, “I’m your Bang Chan, since you can’t be your own.” Chan would look at him with bemused fondness, card a hand through his hair, and tell him to go to sleep.)

**Author's Note:**

> please join me in crying about how sweet these two are. god i love them so much


End file.
